


who to try instead of who to trust (with a hand on your heart)

by Single_Starling



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Cassian thinks about the gift at the bottom of the Sidra, Cheesy I know, F/M, Iron and Wine inspired, Miss Bottom of the Hill had me feeling all the Nessian feels, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Single_Starling/pseuds/Single_Starling
Summary: “You can yell at me, you can tell me everything that’s wrong with me, all the bad parts, I deserve that,” Nesta says. “And I deserve your hatred too. But I’ll just pretend you’re the only one left who doesn’t. And I don’t hate you, even though I try. Never you.”In which Cassian and Nesta have another encounter like that night on the Sidra, but a moment is shared, and Nesta says things that should have been said in the first place.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	who to try instead of who to trust (with a hand on your heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Iron and Wine's "Miss Bottom of the Hill" gave me Nessian vibes, so I felt like sharing. A songfic may be cheesy, but I love them. However, I definitely do NOT own the song, as I am nowhere near the creative genius that is Iron & Wine. Just a small mo between my fav couple, but with angst because why not.

_So Miss Bottom of the Hill what do you want?_   
_The sun is shinin' and your lovers always lose you in the dark_   
_And they were all chosen to remember how the sparrows hit the window_   
_That you closed to keep the cat out in the yard_

Three days after Cassian hurls his solstice gift into the Sidra, he’s sitting across from Nesta at Rita’s. She refuses to meet his eyes, and he can’t decide if he prefers it that way or not. He’s too busy trying to ignore how her eyes catch the candlelight, the frosty depths beckoning him to lean closer and see if he can see if there’s anything below the surface. She looks thin, he can see her collarbone pressing against her skin. Her dress hangs from her shoulders, two sharp blades that remind him Nesta isn’t made of steel; despite her new, lethal form, she seems more brittle than when she was human.

Rhysand and Feyre are too drawn into each other to notice the silent warzone between him and Nesta, or they’re distracting themselves from it. Rhysand refuses to get involved, his disdain for Nesta is common knowledge. Feyre watches Nesta, occasionally, lips pursing with every new drink Nesta throws back.

Azriel’s gaze is fixed on Elain and Mor, as they sway to music on the dance floor, one eye on them, the other prepared to fend off any approaching suitors. Elain, at least, has begun to reinhabit her body. Her spirit, if subdued, seems to be slowly creeping back in. She’s still skittish around fae, males especially, but Azriel and Mor watch her closely. She wears this like a security blanket.

Nesta watches her sister dance and avoids Cassian’s gaze and avoids Feyre’s less frequent glances and flexes her hands, itching to reach for the bottle and leave glasses behind entirely. Cassian sees it all, sees her press her hands into the worn wooden table, peering around the dim bar, drumming her fingers to the music. She looks pained, restless.

When Elain mentioned Mor had coaxed her to accompany then to Rita’s, that had gotten a rare rise out of the icy female, and Cassian was almost glad to see she still had something left in her, even if it was more piss and vinegar than anything else. He’d thrown in a smirk for good measure, just to see if he could get her eyes to flicker at him. And flicker, they did. He’d been extra overbearing those next few days, oscillating between avoiding her and antagonizing her, as a sick, twisted punishment for that night on the Sidra. He hated himself for it, but not enough. He hated that he keeps looking for the old, fiery Nesta underneath this new, icy one, even after she did her best to shred him apart.

Cassian refuses to dance, even though he sees a few females whom he’d danced with in the past, and some who’d shared his bed. Now, he’s lost his appetite for women without sharp tongues and steely eyes. They still wink, wave, smile, sashay, strut across the bar, trying to entice him. He raises his chin to a few, but remains in the wooden booth, arms crossed.

When Feyre and Rhysand get up to dance, Nesta throws back another glass before slinking out of the booth, towards the back exit.

“Getting some air,” she said brusquely, before shouldering through the crowd. Cassian watches her go, and sighs.

_The sun is shinin' and you cleaned your pretty pistol of a heart_   
_But when you talk about tomorrow_   
_When to beg and when to borrow_   
_Is how to hit the ground before you hear the shot_

When Nesta leaves the too-loud and too-bright and too-busy bar behind for open air, she inhales and exhales deeply, even if it’s in the back alleyway.

Feyre’s ignoring her, no surprise there. And she’s gotten good at exchanging barbs with Rhysand. Cassian, on the other hand, always manages to make his blows count, and she hates to let him win. Tonight, however, when he’s not looking at her with disdain, he’s looking at the other females, sharing winks, letting them undress him with their eyes until she feels like a voyeur. She won’t allow herself to be angry that he won’t turn that gaze on her, nor will she allow herself to be angry that she searches for it in her own bedmates’ eyes. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Her head spins from the wine, but she welcomes it. It is in moments like these where she finds equilibrium. The world finally makes sense when there are no fixed points in the distance, when the ground moves like water and she feels like she’s drifting through. She prefers it this way.

Nesta leans against the cold brick wall to watch the sky. Even the sky is different here; the moon might look the same, but it’s brighter, somehow. Bigger. There are more stars than she knows the names of, and she used to be able to nearly name them all. Now, they’ve slipped out of her grasp, like everything else. When she drinks, at least they blur together so she doesn’t feel so lost when she tries to count them.

The door opens behind her, and she can sense him, sense his heat, his smell, his damned moods, everything.

“Are you alright?”

Nesta refuses to look at him. Tonight is overcast and cold, so the stars are hidden, and for this, she’s grateful. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Cassian’s voice is steady, and she almost believes him.

“‘I’m fine. If Feyre sent you out here to babysit me-”

Cassian can’t resist the dig. “She did, and I’m glad someone has the sense to.”

Nesta tries to reach for her anger, but it comes up cold. Shame, anger, all buried under that layer of ice that’s become familiar, if not pleasant. “Well I’m sure you have skirts to chase, Commander. I’ll see myself home.” She paused. “Is Elain alright?”

“Az and Mor took her home twenty minutes ago.”

Nesta nods, eyes still on the sky. She can feel Cassian standing behind her, his warmth so enticing and terrifying. She thinks about tilting backwards, falling into his chest, letting him catch her. _Not for me, not for me, not for me,_ thunders with the steady thud of her heart. “Goodnight then.” She waits for him to leave, but he doesn’t and she sighs.

“You want to go home, I’ll take you,” Cassian says, and she finally turns, ready to throw another barb so he’ll back off and leave her alone. She sees he’s draped her cloak over his arm, and refuses to wrap her arms around herself, even though she’s shivering against the snowflakes beginning to drift.

“No need. Go back to your mistress and master.” Nesta turns on her heel, and Cassian follows. His irritated growl feels like a victory, albeit a hollow one.

“Feyre cares about you,” Cassian rumbles, watching her shoulders curve inwards. Trying to protect herself from the cold, or from him?

Nesta ignores him and begins to walk, swiping snowflakes from her face. Cassian follows, silently, and she snatches her cloak when he offers it.

The streets are nearly empty; it’s long past midnight and even the most merry of revelers are trickling back into their homes and burrows, with or without bedfellows.

He’s feeling feisty tonight, and she’s almost excited at the prospect of a fight, so Cassian baits her. “Don’t cause her more grief by getting yourself lost, or hurt.”

“Give up on me,” Nesta snaps. “I’m well aware of how much I displease my sister. I don’t need you pretending you don’t hate me too.”

“I never said I hated you.” It’s true, he doesn’t, even if he tries his damndest to.

“You don’t have to. Everybody does,” Nesta says. Bitterness, it turns out, is one of the few emotions she can still feel, and she half hates herself for it. They’re close to her apartment building, she wishes she could melt into shadows the way Azriel does, to fade into nothingness and escape Cassian and the twisted thing they’ve created between them.

“If they do, they have their reasons,” Cassian snaps. His voice echoes off the empty street. Even if he doesn’t hate her, he can hate her apathy, her selfishness. “If you don’t know why, then that’s your own fault.”

Nesta laughs, her voice empty and shrill. “Is this why you wanted to walk me home? To take your own shots while Feyre’s not around to get her own in?” She stops walking and spreads her arms. “I’m here, Commander; at least look me in the eye like a man..”

Cassian closes his eyes and counts to twenty. “I’m not going to argue with you when you’re drunk.”

Nesta snickers. “Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as drunk as I’d like to be. If you wanted a different Nesta, come back in half an hour.” She turns to unlock the door to her building. Already her fingers are itching to hold another glass, her throat welcoming the burn of alcohol. Yes, things are hazy, but the dizziness is fading fast, and she wants it back.

Cassian presses his hand into the door to keep her from closing it. “If you’re going to drink, at least let me be here.” And this too is what he hates; even after everything, the barbed words, the insults, offering himself up to be sliced open like a fish, he wants to stay.

Nesta sneers. “You can’t insult me and then turn around and play the knight in shining armor. Get out.”

“Nesta.” Cassian’s voice is brittle, and even she can hear it. “Let me in.”

Against her better judgment, maybe it’s because she’s so desperate for that drink, maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to be alone, maybe it’s because she sees something in his eyes, she lets him in.

_You've learned to balance on the cable_   
_Drink us all under the table_   
_And who to try instead of who you trust_   
_With a hand on your heart that threw you under the bus_

Cassian doesn’t know how it happens, but he winds up on his back on Nesta’s floor, drunker than he’s been in a long time.

Nesta lounges on her small, grubby sofa, the only other piece of furniture in her small apartment besides a simple wood stove and bed. An empty bottle dangles from her fingers and she smiles smugly, looking at the Illyrian whom she’s managed to drink under the table. And who said all those nights alone with her and the bottle wouldn’t pay off?

He hauls himself onto the couch, hands over his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Five hundred years old, yes, you’re quite the decrepit old fool,” Nesta runs a hand down his arm, feeling the bunching muscles and wishes the man she’d slept with the previous night had borne a little more resemblance to Cassian. All her bedmates have long, dark hair and brawny frames. But none have his eyes, eyes that seem to see straight into her, rotted and broken depths and all. He suppresses a shiver and closes his eyes, savoring the heat of her hand.

“Cassian?” Nesta asks, staring at the ceiling. He grunts, and she forges ahead, fueled by the numbness and alcohol. “I hope you really don’t hate me.”

He grunts again, but tilts his head to watch her.

“I couldn’t bear it if you hated me too,” she says, now more to herself than him. “I deserve Feyre’s hatred. I deserve whatever Rhysand throws at me. I deserve yours too, but, fuck…” she trails off, raising the bottle to take a drink and finds it empty. “I’m usually numb. Their hatred doesn’t matter so much; it’s like small sparks of fire. It doesn’t make a difference. But you,” she tilts her head back at him. “Yours is… dangerous. It’s the only thing, I think, that could still hurt me.” She drops her head back again, until their heads are almost touching and Cassian forgets how to breathe. She’s like a rabbit, vulnerable, still, and he’s afraid to move too quickly.

“You can yell at me, you can tell me everything that’s wrong with me, all the bad parts, I deserve that,” Nesta says. “And I deserve your hatred too. But I’ll just pretend you’re the only one left who doesn’t. And I don’t hate you, even though I try. Never you.” She’s quiet, and he thinks she’s fallen asleep, before she whispers, and he can feel her breath ghost across his face. “Whatever the gift was, the one you threw into the Sidra, I didn’t deserve one anyways.”

She slips into sleep, easily, chest rising and falling. The bottle slides from her hand and thuds to the floor, rolling across the worn wood. It knocks against other empty bottles, the soft clinks reminding him of windchimes in a graveyard.

Cassian’s no longer unsteady or drunk. _Never you,_ she’d said. The only thing that could still hurt me. As horrible as it is, he feels a warming in his chest, the small ember of something flickering in the naked truth of her words. She won’t remember her delicate honesty in the morning but he will.

 _Never you, never you, never you,_ his heart beats and he leaves her there on the couch, wraps a blanket around her, before slinking out into the night.

He thinks on the gift lying at the bottom of the Sidra. How Nesta just gave him something after all, despite her best efforts. He tucks this secret close as he flies home, knowing she’d truly do her best to break him beyond repair if she knew what she’d given him. Hope, of all horrible, beautiful, sadistic things.

_So Miss Bottom of the Hill what do you want?_   
_The sun is shinin' and I think you want me more often than not_   
_But like your father in the garden_   
_I won't finish what I started_   
_'Til you bill me for the flowers I forgot_


End file.
